‘Orks,’ I repeated, wishing my voice were steady. ‘They’re riding some form of airboat. Four vessels, maybe five. I can’t be sure, there’s too much smoke.’

‘Who is this?’

‘Propagandist Simlex,’ I murmured as the craft raced onwards. ‘We met yesterday, albeit briefly.’

‘What the hell are you doing here? Did you get on the wrong aircraft?’

‘It does seem that way.’

They were closer now, the smoke trails visible to Taton. He glanced at me from over his shoulder.

‘Are they heading for us?’

‘I think so.’

‘What colour’s the smoke?’

‘Black. No, there is a green tint.’

‘Marvellous, a signal. You realise we are exposed here? If a squad of ork fighters spots us we are dead.’

Taton ignored her, addressing me. ‘Perform a perimeter sweep. Are more incoming?’

I synced with Mizar, its sensors sweeping across the swamp.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘There are more airboats coming from… that way. East. I can’t tell if more come from the west – the storm clouds make it hard to see the smoke.’

I felt strangely calm, as though the danger were not quite real. It was not the first time I had experienced this sensation. I suspect it is a by-product of perceiving the world through Mizar’s unblinking eye, its cold rationality steadying my human frailty. But as they drew closer I heard the whirr of their engines, like buzz saws carving through stone. Worse was their battle cry, a score of guttural voices united in joyous bloodlust.

It was then I felt fear, my mouth dry, bladder full.

Taton stowed his auspex, drawing his sword, the blade crackling with the faint glow of a power field.

‘Flight Commander Shard,’ he said. ‘Retrieving the package is the priority. Once it is secured on board, depart immediately.’

He leapt from the ramp. Through Mizar, I watched him land and begin wading a path towards his soldiers. The submerged Scion was still struggling with the blue bubble. Taton called an order and the Scions spread out, weapons trained on the distant orks. He raised the power sword, plunging into the foetid waters, which churned and bubbled at his blade’s passage. I man­oeuvred for a closer view but Mizar resisted, for it now had the orks in visual range.

These were not the knock-kneed brutes from the poorly spliced pict. Despite their stooped shoulders they stood over seven feet tall, and more than half that wide. Their faces, if that was the word, were comprised of bony foreheads, thick enough to repel small-arms fire, and slab-like jaws infested with tusked fangs. Each wielded a thick-barrelled ballistic weapon. No two firearms were alike, but all were large enough that a human would require a gun carriage to survive their recoil. The orks had spotted the Scions and already opened fire. Though out of range, their weapons resonated with the fury of an artillery barrage.

‘They’re too close. Those idiots are not going to make it.’